It was early evening. Rain tapped softly against the wide windows. The interior was dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the hardwood floors. The remnants of sleepless nights—empty bottles, clothes tossed over furniture, and silent screens—hang in the air like dust.
Oliver sat on the balcony despite the light drizzle, a blanket draped over his shoulders, staring at the skyline. A cold mug of black coffee rested beside him. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes were hollow. His resignation had only deepened the ache—not relieved it.
A knock at the door didn’t stir him at first.
Another knock. Firmer.
He exhaled, and didn't move. But a familiar voice broke through the quiet.
Bernard Hansen came inside.
“Oliver? It’s me.”
The door creaked open. Bernard, tall, silver-haired, with the refined
